


Dyslexic In A Library

by Heavenly_Stellar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Athlete Castiel, Awkward Dean, Bullying, Crushes, Dyslexia, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Learning Disabilities, Libraries, Little Brother Sam, M/M, Name-Calling, Reading Aloud, Swimmer Castiel, Teen Castiel, Teen Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenly_Stellar/pseuds/Heavenly_Stellar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is dyslexic. For that he is alienated at school, struggles to make friends and get good grades. In an attempt to pass English class, he goes to the town library to find a book to read and write an essay about. What he doesn't expect is to be found there by his long-time crush: Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dyslexic In A Library

Dean looks fixedly at the sign on front door of the town library. He twists the straps of his backpack.

Nerves out of whack. Pulse bounding. Heart pounding. Dean worries his bottom lip with his front teeth.

 _What good is this gonna do in the end?_ He wonders to himself.

It’ll probably bring him nothing but grief. Looking away, Dean works his jaw. There are better ways to spend his Saturday then hang out at a dusty, old library. He glances back at the sign and his stomach plummets. How’s he meant to even pass his next English exam— if he can’t even read the opening and closing times notice on the door? Certain words appear to him, yet, when he reads it out mentally… It doesn’t make sense.

He knows that it can’t be right.

Knows that _he’s_ not right.

Dean passes a hand over his face. Who’s he kidding?

He has no chance.

The kids in his sophomore grade are right to whisper and point and make teasing remarks about Dean’s academic ability. They’re all younger than him because he had been kept back a year but they’re so much smarter and then there’s him. He’s just plain _stupid_. Dean turns hard on his heel. He takes a few steps in the direction of home.

Then stops abruptly. Sam— his little brother— comes to mind. The midget had managed to get an answer of where Dean was going out to this morning.

“ _Where are you going?_ Dad won’t be happy that you’ve gone without telling him,” Sam had pointed out.

Dean huffed in annoyance. “Cover me, then.”

“Why should I? I don’t even know where you’re going!” Sam crossed his arms defiantly.

“To… the library,” Dean had groused.

Instead of poking fun or being a little shit, Sam had done something that in Dean’s eyes was much worse. He had been _encouraging_.

“Seriously?” he demanded with a face-splitting grin. “Dean! That’s fantastic!”

Sam was so happy that Dean reckoned that the sun could’ve been shining out of his ass. Honestly, the amount of faith that Sam showed was overwhelming. The nerd had offered to go with him and help out. Said he knew how the library system worked.

But… Dean didn’t want the embarrassment of Sam knowing how clueless and useless he truly was. Now here he was, giving up before he had even set a foot in the library. Dean couldn’t let Sammy down. Wouldn’t be able to bear the disappointment on his little brother’s face. Dean rolls his eyes.

 _Come on, you idiot,_ he scolds himself as he sucks his gut in.  _Be a man and read one fucking book._

Dean spins back around— straightening his back and shoulders— then forces himself to enter the building. The inside isn’t as intimidating as he thought it would be. Dean ventures in. There’s a woman sitting at a large workstation, a stack of books in front of her.

She smiles at him. Dean nods back, trying to act like he’s in his element here.

Further, he delves into this foreign place. The smell of the place isn’t unpleasant at all. Reminds him of Sam, for some reason. The lighting is slightly poor, which strikes him as odd, as this is a place where you’re meant to read. However, Dean’s not complaining. It makes it kinda cozy.

Feeling out of place, Dean rocks back and forth on his feet. He looks left and right, unsure how or where to start. There are s _o many_ books. Rows of shelves lined with novels of all shape and size and color. Some crinkled with age and use, others shiny and new. Dean picks out section at random in the _Fiction_ area. He lets his fingertips trail over the spines.

“All I need,” he whispers to himself, cocking his head to the side “is one of you fuckers for my paper.”

Words pop out. Titles. Names. Dean smacks his lips together, indecisive. None of it makes too much sense nor does it sound familiar. Why would it? Reading has always been daunting because he could never seem to do it right. Not at the rate of everyone else, anyway.

He shakes himself. It won’t do him any good— not believing in his self. Especially now! Dean can’t help the pride that washes over him. He’s actually trying for once! Won’t his English teacher be surprised when Dean hands her an assignment that will make half-sense. The teen has to cough to suppress the cackle that escapes his lips at the thought of Ms. Mills’ face.

Time goes by.

Dean chooses three books. Their slimness and colour appealed to him. Clutching them close like they’re precious, Dean wanders around, searching for a place to sit down. In a corner Dean finds a small table with a few chairs surrounding it. He winces as he drags a chair out and the feet scrape against the timber floor— making a horrible squeaking noise. Dean places the books down gently. Then shrugs off his backpack, it lands on the floor, and he plonks down on to the chair.

Dean wiggles, and then hums. It’s comfortable enough. He picks up the first one and gingerly turns the tan pages to the first bulk of text. _Chapter One._ Dean steels himself. He can do this shit.

After spending ten minutes on the same sentence, Dean’s determination is almost gone.

He groans and slumps over the table in defeat, bicep a substitute pillow. The books slips from his fingers and when it hits the tabletop, the sound stabs him in the chest, hard. That’s the sound of his vanquish. Why can’t this be easier? All the words buzz round his head.

“Are you alright?” a soft, yet gravelly, voice startles him out of his dark mood.

Dean snaps upward. The table and chair jump with him— making a racket. Heat rushes to his cheeks.

_Oh, Lord, have mercy._

Dean stares up at the guy standing beside him in half-awe, half-dread. It’s him: Castiel Novak. A boy wonder of the high school Dean attends. The fellow teen is captain of the swim team and school vice-president of the school and member of the fucking chess team.

Castiel made chess _cool_.

He is everything Dean can’t— couldn’t— be at school and has appeared several times in a few of Dean’s dirty dreams. And whose dreams _wouldn’t_ he be in? Castiel has eyes as blue as a cloudless sky at noon and dark, chocolate tresses of hair. Usually styled back with gel. Today it’s a bird’s nest. High cheekbones. Thin eyebrows. Pink, kissable lips.

“Sorry,” Dean blurts, quickly fixing his appearance.

He threads his fingers through his hair, hoping it wasn’t too out of place. Then again, there’s no denying that it probably looks a whole lot neater than the state of Castiel’s hair.

“No need to apologize,” Castiel shakes his head, one hand coming up to wave away the apology, “It’s fine.”

Dean wills for his heart to _stop beating like a fucking tom-tom drum._ He rubs the back of his neck, kneading the tension from his flesh and looks expectantly up at the senior student.

“Uh… yeah?” Dean clears his throat. “You need something?”

“Oh,” a light color spreads over Castiel’s cheeks, “I was wondering if you want some help?”

_Yes, please!_

“No, man,” Dean says, “I’m okay.”

Castiel raises his eyebrow at Dean, like he knows that it’s a load of bullshit. Contriteness makes Dean duck his head, breaking their eye contact. No doubt Castiel _knows_ how thick Dean is. Probably is doing this out of the goodness of his heart because that’s just Castiel— known for his charity work, his community services and all that cheery shit that looks good on a resume.

“Are you sure?” Castiel insists.

Dean nods.

He angles his body away from Castiel, pointedly looking away and pretending to be deep in concentration. He picks up one of his three novels, flicking through it, waiting, wishing for Castiel to leave already. The pages of the book crinkle under the pressure of his fingers when Castiel suddenly pulls out a chair and sits down.

Fuck, even his posture is perfect.

“To be honest,” Castiel says as he clasps his hands together, resting the interlocked fingers atop of the table. “I couldn’t help but notice your… _interesting_ ,” tone indicating distaste, or amusement, Dean’s not sure, “choice of literature.”

Dean feels a flare of indignation— even though he ain’t got even an inkling about what any of these books about— they’re _his books_. He chose them.

“So?” Dean asks brusquely.

“Oh… it’s nothing. I suppose, I just never pinned you,” Castiel slides one of the slim volumes toward him, lips lifting into a smirk, “as an erotic male-slash-male romance fan.”

“ _What?!”_ Dean squeaks in mortification. Instantly, his face flushes bright tomato red. Neck and ears burning. “I…” he stammers, “I didn’t…”

Castiel’s eyes narrow as he peruses the back of the book. “Connor and Oliver, huh? I don’t think I’ve read this one yet.”

Dean can only stare and gape.

“Which is surprising,” Castiel continues, unaffected, “since I spend so much time in here. My Mom is the head librarian,” he explains, cocking his head in direction of front.

Dean makes a strangled sound as a noise of acknowledgement. His hand shakes as he runs his fingers through his hair to attempt to look at ease.

Like it’s everyday conversation and it’s totally ordinary that you admit to practically complete strangers that _you read gay porn on a regular basis_.

Dean itches at his neck. Is it just him, or has it gotten like, ten degrees hotter here in the library?

“Hmmm,” Castiel flicks to a random page, eyes darting as he skims over the words. “Oh, good. It has one,” he looks at Dean straight in the eyes and comments, “Every good male homosexual erotica story _has_ to have a scene where they have sex in the shower.”

_In the shower._

Dean gulps. Blood rushes through his veins.

_The hot spray of water coming down on him, wet hands slipping over flushed skin. Mouth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, sucking, biting as a hand slides down his chest, stomach then gripping hard at his—_

Subtly, or to the best of his abilities anyway, Dean presses the heel of his palm down over his crotch.

“U-um, yeah, for sure,” Dean says, voice strained.

Castiel places the book down and gives it a small pat. “Enjoy,” he says with a wide smile. “However, I do suggest that you do read it in the comfort of your own bedroom.”

“I’m not gonna read it!” Dean practically screams.

Castiel shushes him, finger at his lips, “This is a library, not a circus, please keep your voice down.”

Dean holds his head in his hands and wonders if it is possible to die from humiliation. What if anyone found out about this? What if Castiel told all his friends?

“Dean,” the use of his name makes the younger boy’s head snap up to face Castiel.

“You know my name,” Dean says dumbly.

Castiel sends a smirk in Dean’s direction. “I do. We go to the same school, after all.”

“B-But,” Dean stumbles over his words, because _how_ does the Castiel Novak know his name?

“Do you know mine?” Castiel asks.

“Of course,” Dean says without thinking.

Castiel nods. “Good. So, Dean…” his eyes flick to the erotica, “anything else you need from our humble library? Is there a specific purpose you’re here?”

Dean swallows hard, looks away. “Just wanted to,” he mumbles, “y’know.”

Castiel tilts his head at him, expression open and kind and Dean _wants_ to tell him. He wants to be _known_ by Castiel, wants his friendship.

“My younger brother Samandriel is in your grade,” the older boy says, surprising him. “He tells me that the English class was given an assignment.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Are you here to find a book to write about?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” Dean answers.

Castiel takes the other two books into his hands, looking back and forth between them with a little crease between his brows. “Do you read often, Dean?”

Dean flushes with an embarrassed heat. “No.”

“Samandriel says that you have trouble in class,” Castiel says, making Dean feel an unpleasant twist in his gut, “with reading, primarily.”

His heartbeat is so loud. Thumping in his ears. Pulse increasing in speed. Dean wrings his hands together in his lap. “He’s not wrong.”

“How about listening?”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes. “Listening?” he repeats, unsure of where this is heading.

“Do you find it easier to understand things by listening?” Castiel asks, voice gentle.

Dean thinks about it for a while, blinking in confusion as he does so. Then, he finds himself nodding. He hadn’t realized it before, but Castiel is right: Dean _does_ prefer listening to reading or writing. Maybe that’s why he likes music so much.

Castiel sighs heavily and gets to his feet. “Your books, though in good taste, won’t be easy to write about for your assignment. Come along.”

Dean brushes away the temptation to pinch himself, thinking he must be dreaming. He trails behind Castiel, knowing and not caring that he probably looks like a lost puppy— following almost blindly, in absolute awe.

They walk together, up and down the rows, silent save for the sound of their breathing. It’s that quiet. Dean enjoys the feeling. Castiel goes from crossing his arms over his chest to putting his hands on his hips as he inspects the books. With his lips pouting and brow furrowing thoughtfully.  

“Ever heard of Vonnegut, Dean?” Castiel pauses to ask, casting Dean a glance over his shoulder.

Dean nods. “My Uncle lent me _Cat’s Cradle_ and _Slaughterhouse Five_. I… I tried to read it. But…” he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“What are your thoughts on _Catch-22?_ It’s not written by Vonnegut, but it has similar themes to _Slaughterhouse Five_ ,” Castiel draws out a novel from the shelf. It’s thick, a white title against a red cover. Castiel runs a finger over the cracks in the spine, a soft tsk escaping his mouth.

“I know they say that it’s a sign of a well-loved book… but it’s saddening how carelessly some people treat a treasure,” Castiel turns to face Dean.

Standing— they’re almost the same height— Dean a fraction taller than Castiel. When Castiel takes a step closer into Dean’s personal space, a light shudder runs through his body.

“From what I’ve heard, you have to talk about the themes and how it connects with the youth of today?” Castiel asks to confirm.

“Yeah,” Dean replies.

He’s so near, Dean catches a whiff of the other boy. An underlying scent of deodorant mixed with the smell of grass.

“Well,” Castiel clears his throat, “ _Catch-22_ is a war novel. But the main character, Yossarian, has qualities and fears and beliefs which are relatable, even though our situation today is quite different compared to life during World War Two.”

Dean can’t stand it anymore, the curiosity that burns under his skin. “Listen, man. I appreciate this, but why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? Do you want something from me?”

Castiel straightens, looking offended. “What? No, I…” he frowns. “I have no reason.”

“Do you feel sorry for me or whatever?” Dean demands, not appeased by Cas’ answer.

“Honestly, yes. I want to help,” Castiel snaps, “and I’m stubborn. So I’m _not_ taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

Stunned into silence, Dean remains frozen as his emotions and thoughts go into turmoil.

Time and time again, Dean has refused this so-called help from his teachers and tutors and ex-friend’s. Till the point he got to this stage: alone. Seeking last resorts. Grasping at the slipping straws of chance. Dean tried to keep up the ruse. The excuse that there’s _nothing wrong with him_ and that he doesn’t _need_ anyone to fix his problems.

But what good has that done for him so far?

He has been too strong, too closed off. What if he was to ease back? Let someone else take care of him? What if he let someone give him a helping hand instead of struggling to stand all by his lonesome?

What if that person… could be Castiel?

“Okay,” Dean says.

Castiel frowns, the repeats, “Okay?”

Dean sucks in a breath. “I’d like some help,” he says and that weight on his shoulders feels a little easier to bear.

Castiel smiles, a small upturn of the corner of his lips, then nods his assent. “Good. How about we go to the children’s section? The couches are more comfortable.”

“My bag is still…” Dean gestures to the corner where he had been sitting, half-losing his mind, when Castiel had first approached him.

“I’ll meet you there, then, you won’t get lost. This is a relatively small library,” Castiel says, shrewd.

Dean hurriedly turns to hide his smile, walking at a quick pace to get his stuff.

The couch is plush, stumpy (after all, it _is_ in the kid’s area) and almost swallows Dean up with all its cushions. When Dean sinks down into it, he squawks, legs flailing as he tries to get his balance. Castiel perches with ease, downright delicately, eyes twinkling— the smug bastard.

Dean doesn’t stay mad for long because Castiel scoots backward and suddenly their thighs are _touching_ and Dean _feels so safe_ , enveloped by soft pillows with a warm body beside him. It’s overwhelming and makes him twitchy.

“Ready?” Castiel questions, book open in his lap.

Dean hugs a pillow to his chest, nods, biting his bottom lip.

Castiel inhales, brushes a stray hair from his forehead, then starts, “ _It was love at first sight.”_

Dean freezes. He opens his mouth, to ask, just to make sure that this wasn’t that Connor and Oliver erotic romance book he had accidently picked when Castiel continues with,

“ _The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him. Yossarian was in the hospital with a pain in his liver that fell just short of being jaundice. The doctors were puzzled by…_ ”

And that’s how it began.

Castiel reads, slow and articulate.

Attentive, Dean listens.

At first he tries to cast his eyes over the words, following along with Castiel’s voice. But he got confused and dizzied. So he simply sits back. Cushions and warmth surrounding him like a cocoon.

Dean’s gaze settles on Castiel. Watching those perfect-looking lips form words, blue eyes half-lidded, skimming easily over the page. Dean’s attention is unwavering.

Besides it’s not like _Catch-22_ isn’t boring at all. The size of the book is still downright intimidating, but they weren’t even at the end of chapter one when Dean was already amused and eager to listen to more of Yossarian’s wit and shenanigans.

Plus, Dean is just so fucking grateful that _finally_ books and words and all of that shit are starting to make sense. He feels as high as a kite. Dean hadn’t felt so _whole_ in a long time. Too long, he realizes, as he wrings the material of the pillowcase between his fingers.

Dean and Castiel virtually spend the whole of their Saturday together. Taking a few breaks here and there from reading. Castiel introduces his mother to Dean. Her name is Angela. She is soft-spoken. Yet firm. She smiles through her eyes; those of which aren’t as pretty as Castiel’s— but still a rather nice shade of blue. The three of them have lunch together in the staff room at the back: sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

“It’s an old habit,” Angela claims as she sets the plates down. She rests her hand on Castiel’s head for a moment before sitting.

“S’alright,” Dean insists. “My Mom used to do the same thing.”

“What’s your mother’s name?” Castiel asks.

Dean smiles. “Mary,” he states, and then dips his head down. “It was Mary.”

Castiel and Angela share a look.

They are a few chapters into _Catch-22_ when Dean decides that he definitely should be getting home. As it is close to evening time, if his Dad was sober enough to realize that Dean had left Sammy alone to fend for himself for he day, the old man would shit a brick.

At the door, bag on his back, Dean shyly says to Castiel, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel’s voice is hoarse, but he is smiling anyway. Then suddenly, he is gripping Dean’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow?” Dean’s eyes widen, heartbeat going wild in his chest.

“I have the time,” Castiel says.

“O-Oh,” Dean stutters. “Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow. Good.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel pats Dean on the chest.

“Right. See you,” Dean replies, skin on fire where Castiel had touched him. All the way home, Dean whistles a happy tune.

 

*

 

Monday morning.

Dean’s knee jumps up and down, unable to sit still. The class is a zoo. Apart from the main clusters of teens, Dean has chosen a desk furthest to the left in the second row. Where it is safest. Where people will ignore him. Dean doesn’t mind the lack of attention he gets. It’s when someone gets interested in him, and not in the good way, that’s when the problems start.

One of the guys from the lacrosse team stands up on his desk and imitates the Hulk. Dean snorts, then looks away. The teacher is late. It’s no big deal. Hell, it’s a score! It means that there’s less time and therefore less of a chance they’ll get him to read out aloud or answer questions, making a fool out of himself. Causing the class to crack up and taunt him.

On a few occasions, there have been peers who look out for him. Encourage him and snap at the other rude dickheads to shut the hell up. But in the long run, it doesn’t help, because there’s that overwhelming gratitude that swallows him whole. He thinks, _thank God I’ve been saved_ , and Dean hates it. He hates how it affects him. So he tries to brush it off, ignore them all and pretend he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Hey! Winchester!” one of his classmates: Marv, yells at him. 

Dean flinches. _Ignore-ignore-ignore-ignore-ignore-_ the instant mantra in his head is set off. Squashing the instinct to curl up, he chances a look. The chatter of the class has been slightly subdued. Dean is surprised to see that it is Castiel at the classroom door.

Donned in black slim jeans and a blue-and-white striped hoodie. Brunette hair styled artfully. There’s nothing extraordinary about Castiel’s appearance but he’s got most of the sophomores swooning in his direction.

“Dean,” Castiel says.

The spotlight swings to Dean. The shock of it colours his cheeks. He swallows hard and ducks his head down in embarrassment, when all he wants to stand and greet Castiel. Welcome him in with a wide grin and a hearty laugh. Along with a quick peck on the lips to dumbfound them… _If only…_

Marv wrinkles his nose at Dean in distaste. “He’s a bit slow.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Castiel replies.

Cool and calm, with just a hint of an irritated bite. The senior student pushes past Marv and walks with a natural air of ease and confidence that Dean could only dream of ever accomplishing. Castiel stops in front of Dean and stoops to speak with him, gripping the side of the desk.

“I’ve talked with Ms. Mills,” he says quietly. “I explained what we’ve organized and she was rather… _zealous_ about it all.”

Dean leans in. Revels in the closeness and the secrecy of what _they_ have. “Okay. And?”

“I have a free period when you have your English lesson.” Castiel says, “We’ve arranged that on some days that you’ll be spending it with me in the school library. Reading.”

“Oh!” Dean exclaims, blinking rapidly, genuinely surprised as the news sinks in. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I will come around to collect you. Don’t worry about it too hard. I have it under control.” Castiel smiles: small and sincere. “Alright?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” Dean nods. “Thanks. You know, no one’s ever…”

_No one has ever really tried as hard as you have to help me._

“Thanks, Castiel,” Dean repeats along with a smile. Unsure he can verbalize what he feels.

“Cas,” Castiel corrects.

Dean’s smile widens. “Right. Cas. Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” Cas straightens. He adjusts his backpack straps, claps Dean on the shoulder. “See you at lunch.”

He says it loud enough that everyone in the class hears it. Dean flushes, pleased. Unabashedly, he checks out Cas’ butt in those jeans as he walks out of the room.

 

*

 

Dean would be embarrassed if he wasn’t enjoying it so much with how much time he and Cas are spending in each other’s company. The library at school and the one Cas’ mom manages in town have both become a kind of sanctuary. Cas continues to read _Catch-22_ and has not yet shown any signs of frustration toward Dean.

A kindness Dean has only ever seen with Sammy and a few teachers.

It has gotten to the point where Dean can list the times they’ve spent apart rather than together. Cas is a busy kid with managing swim practice, bearing his vice-president responsibilities and chess games.

But he always has time for Dean.

During school at lunchtimes and their private ‘lessons’ when Dean usually has English and Cas has his free period. Even in the afternoon’s once school’s over. Dean finds himself _actually_ looking forward to their reading sessions. But maybe that’s because he uses it as an excuse to lean up against Cas. Their bodies’ warm and fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Dean is putting a blanket over the passed-out form of his drunkard father when Sam comes up to him.

“Are you and Cas, y’know,” Sam makes a gesture. “Dating?”

Dean laughs. “I wish, Sammy.”

“You should ask him out,” Sam says.

“Sure, Sam,” he says as he walks into their laundry room. “After I move into the White House and have my pedicure appointment.”

Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs at the idea, but inside, it’s _bugging_ him. Would it be okay if he did ask Cas out? And if he did, where would he take him? What would they do? Dean is one hundred percent certain that Cas is gay— judging from those erotica novels he continue to rave about— so that’s not going to be a problem.

Dean and Cas are friends now. Even though it took Dean a while to crawl out of his shell, but once he did… Well, he takes great pride in making the older teen smile or laugh or frown in that adorable way of his. They’ve had a few spats. Like that one time they had to share a bean bag and a lot of " _Dean your elbows are sharp"_ and " _Cas stop moving, or I’ll accidentally knee you in the balls"_ had ensued.

But overall there’s been nothing between Cas and his’ relationship, friendship, or whatever, that suggested that they’re not couple material. The idea doesn’t leave Dean as he restlessly tosses and turns about in bed that night.

It’s just an innocent question.

Nothing wrong with two guy friends going somewhere to have fun and maybe fool around and hold hands and share food and perhaps make out on the nearest flat surface… Dean shakes himself out of those thoughts and strictly tells himself to go to sleep and forget about the whole thing.

After rolling around with moments of burning determination and cold-sweat-inducing dread for at least an additional four hours— Dean decides with some finality that he will ask Cas out on a date. Tomorrow.

 

*

 

Dean treks through the sea of teenagers. Weaving through the currents. The first bell of the day has just gone off. He is on his way to Cas’ locker. It’s their meeting point before they head off to the school’s library for their reading session. Dean knows the route well.

He breathes out a thankful sigh when the hallways have become clear, all the students settling down at their desks in the myriad of classrooms. Dean doesn’t like that feeling of being closed in on all sides by people. Probably because he’s so freaking terrified or in complete admiration of the majority.

Legs less shaky, he keeps on going. Wondering if he’s totally out of his league for asking Cas out. Half of Dean says he’s an idiot for even considering. But the other half is thinking: what if Cas says ‘yes’?

His heart jumps.

God, he’s hopeless.

Ice-cold apprehension wraps around Dean like a boa constrictor when round the corner is a group of some of Cas’ friends. They are an athletic and good-looking bunch. Dean recognizes them as members of Cas’ swim team. His stomach drops to the floor. They’re right at Cas’ locker and don’t appear to have an intention of leaving any time soon.

Nervous, Dean cracks his knuckles and chews his bottom lip. Where’s Cas? Usually he’s waiting for Dean. But not today it seems. He hovers close by but doesn’t dare take another step. Isn’t sure he’s even breathing right now.

One of them notices Dean— _please, please, please be nice_ — and they jerk their chin in his direction. Expression questioning. “Looking for Cas?”

The other three cease their chatter to look at him. Dean’s not a short guy, but right now, he feels about three feet high as their judgmental eyes tear him down. His toes curl inside his battered, cement-grey Converses. Uncomfortable heat inches up his neck.

“Well?” the first one: Michael prompts and his tone turns impatient. “Are you?”

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. He swallows. “Yeah,” he replies.

“Obviously he isn’t here, retard,” the dark-skinned boy called Uri snaps in disdain. The word cuts deep. Dean lets the sharp edge of it slice him. Pays it no attention. He tries to move but his feet are glued on the spot.

“Uri,” the mousey-haired boy named Bart chastises. “You have to talk slower than that or it won’t understand you.”

Dean clenches his jaw. His knuckles go pale. Crescents from his fingernails mark the flesh of his palm. The designation the other teen gave him of ‘it’ has razor-edges. Those jagged spines are twisting, twisting, twisting deep in his chest.

The shortest of the four, Zach, goes, “Oooh!” and his lips curl in a contemptuous way. Michael and Uri snigger.

“Actually,” Dean speaks up as the pent-up anger inside him fuels his confidence. He rids himself of his slouch as he straightens his back. Defiant, he keeps his chin up and eyes on these bullies.

All of them are silent, taken unawares by Dean actually responding.

Dean continues, feeling eerily calm, “For my science project I’m looking for total scumbags who can’t get it up because of how tiny their dicks are and wow— it’s just my luck today cause’ I just found _four perfect candidates_.”

He gives them a wry grin and gestures to the bag on his back with his thumb. “Mind if I get out my ruler? It’s snapped. So it’s only two inches long. But I got a feeling that won’t be a problem with you fellas.”

Realization dawns on the other boys’ faces. Resentment follows quickly afterwards. A fleeting thought of maybe running his ass out of there, to safety, shoots through Dean’s mind. It would not have been much use anyway as all at once the four senior students are coming at him in a frenzy of indignant rage. Hands bear down on him— too may to keep track of to know which ones belong to whom.

Dean holds in a frightened noise.

“Spastic,” Uri spits as he grabs Dean by the front of his shirt.

Heels coming up off the ground as he’s being lifted, Dean is immediately aware of how much bigger Uri is to him. Sent careening sideways, the lockers sing out as he crashes into them. His shoulder aches and he bites down so he won’t yell out. He stumbles to his feet only to be pushed back down again on to the cold linoleum floor. The boys’ crowd him in and Dean’s breathing is getting harsher and more panicked by the second.

“That’s right, you fag. Stay down!”

“What’s wrong, moron? Don’t feeling like talking now?”

“You’re gonna get what you deserve!”

Making a split-second decision Dean kicks out. The arch of his foot connects with someone’s shin. Bart’s, he thinks. Loud cussing echoes through the hall.

Victory is short.

Uri wraps a hand around one of Dean’s backpack straps. Zach cheers. Dean squirms, writhing on the ground. Tries to shrug out of his bag in order to be free. A shadow looms over him: Michael. His grey-blue eyes glint as they meet Dean’s. No doubt he sees the fear and the panic. Michael raises a fist. Nausea rises up Dean’s throat. He steels himself for the blow when:

“Michael! _What are you doing?_ What—?”

Dean breathes out a shaky sigh of relief at he recognizes Cas’ voice. He slumps against the floor.

The boys, all except for Michael, scatter backward like they’d been burned. Cas’ footsteps are loud, and wet, in the fairly empty hallway. He must have just come back from the school’s swimming pool.

Dean grunts, surprised, as Michael fists the front of his shirt and yanks him forward. Leans close. Nose to nose.

“Don’t expect you’ll ever be like Cas or any of us, dumbfuck,” Michael hisses. “Freaks like you will never belong,” then he retreats with a parting gift of a kick aimed at Dean’s middle.

It did not hurt as much as the words. Dean presses his hands to his stomach, bleeding inside and bruising on the outside.

“Leave him alone!” Cas demands. “Dean,” his savior is breathless and beautiful as he comes into view.

Cas crouches beside Dean. Black hair slick and flat. Smelling strongly of chlorine. His blue eyes are wide, in shock. Dean is almost tearful as Cas rests a hand on his shoulder and his heart is pumping as wild as a feral animal. _Rescued._ Cas looks him over. His touches and caresses are tender.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks him, quiet and concerned.

Dean shakes his head, being honest. How could he even attempt to lie to Cas right now? “N-not really,” he manages to say.

Cas nods and his jaw visibly clenches as anger plays over his features. His hand, warm, and a little clammy, brushes Dean’s hair off his forehead. Then Cas stands and holds out a hand. Dean’s knight in shining armor is just a boy in a sport’s uniform— and it’s enough for him. Dean takes it and together they face the bullies.

Their joined hands don’t part once Dean is on his feet. _Holy fuck_ , is all Dean can think. 

Cas glowers. “Michael, I expected more of you.”

“Same goes to you, Novak,” Michael retorts.

“Yeah,” Uri pipes up, “Hanging out with Winchester. What next? Saving kittens from garbage cans?”

Dean flushes while Zach snickers.

Cas sticks out his chin. “Need I remind you that any form of assault towards a fellow student means that I have the jurisdiction to dismiss you from the swim team,” his voice is low and holds no argument nor poses any kind of question. The boys are silent.

“You wouldn’t!” Bart suddenly cries out, indignant.

“Oh,” Cas smiles slowly, “I think I would.”

They narrow their eyes at Cas in suspicion and caution. Dean feels Cas squeeze his hand. He squeezes in reply, to the best he can. His hands, in fact all his limbs, are quaking.

“Hurt Dean— hurt anyone— at this school ever again and I will hear of it and I will not hesitate. Do not test me,” Cas ends with a growl that gives Dean shivers.

Although displeased with the turning of the tables this kafuffle has caused…  The four bullies leave in a huff. Dean watches their backs. He wonders if they will ever bring him trouble now that he has Cas. So many doubts and insecurities wage war inside him. For now, he is happy. Happy that _finally_ he did not need to save himself and that someone else was willing to lend a hand. Once out of earshot, Cas hums.

“Good Lord, good thing they didn’t be little bitches and decide to quit to spite us,” he chuckles. “We are losing dreadfully against the other schools.” 

Dean laughs.  _Jesus Christ I think I'm in love._

“Do you need to see someone about…?” Cas rests his hand on Dean’s midsection. Butterflies take flight.

“No,” Dean says, voice strained. Cas raises an eyebrow. Dean clears his throat. “I’ll live, Cas. Thanks.”

“If you say so,” Cas whispers and steps into Dean’s space, a hand gliding upward to gently take hold of his chin.

Dean blinks, heart stuttering.

Then there are lips on his.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Cas is _actually kissing him_. He freezes, eyes going wide before he allows himself to relax, leaning into the feel of Cas’ lips on his.  Cas’ hands gently cup his cheeks and their noses brush together as Dean wriggles closer.

He can feel his cheeks heating up, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing a fist full of Cas’ shirt.

Deepening the kiss, Dean draws Cas closer in and angles his head. Supple lips work with his, moving together in tandem in a startlingly quickly found rhythm. The tip of Cas’ tongue outlines the contour of Dean’s lips. He shudders.

Suddenly what Michael said to him doesn’t matter. He may be a ‘dumbfuck’ and a ‘freak’ in their eyes. Dean has problems, yes. It makes him different. It makes everyone use the word ‘special’ with scorn. But Cas is like him: different and special, although in a way entirely opposite to Dean. Yet here they are.

When the pressure of Cas’ lips leaves Dean’s his eyes flutter open, dazed. His grip on Cas’ shirt loosens. Their cheeks are equally a brilliant hue of pink.

“Dean, I…” Cas’ hands move to rest on Dean’s waist. He frowns. “I am sorry about my friends— well, I guess they’re not my friends anymore. They showed their true colors today.”

Dean shakes his head. “Not your fault, man.”

“I wish I could change them,” Cas says with a sigh.

“You won’t be able to, trust me. There are some people that just won’t… won’t see me the way you do,” Dean releases Cas’ shirt and spread his hand out. Moving with the rise and fall of Cas’ chest and the rhythm of his breathing. Under his palm, Dean feels the _thump-thumping_ of a heart that has picked up the pace. Dean ducks his head with a grin.

“Geez, Cas. Feels like your heart’s going to jump outta your chest,” he teases.

Cas takes a step back, expression actually embarrassed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you blame me? I just kissed _you._ ”

“Yeah about that… Think you can do it again?” Dean hooks a finger on the hem of Cas’ sport shorts pocket. Tugs. Cas comes willingly. As he does so, he purses his lips and he squints his eyes, pretending to be thoughtful. When he’s older he’ll get charming crow’s eyes next to those baby blues.

“If I give you one more,” Cas takes hold of Dean’s hand, easily slotting their fingers together.

Dean pouts, bottom lip sticking out like a petulant child’s. “Only one?”

Cas guides them down the corridor. “Will you be a good boy and let me read to you with no other interruptions? And maybe you can try to read as well?”

Dean feels a flare of uncertainty at the prospect of reading out aloud to Cas. But it soon dissipates when he realizes he hasn’t got much to be scared of. Cas won’t judge him for it and Dean knows that by now.

“I’ll give it a go, sure,” Dean says, trying his best to sound confident. It’s the effort that counts anyway.

Cas gives him a blinding smile. “I believe I owe you one kiss right now, and many more shall come if you behave for our lesson.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “You can count on me to be a good student. A-standard, I guarantee.”

Cas barks out a laugh, leans over and places purposefully overly sloppy smooch on Dean’s mouth with a loud _mwah_ noise.

And _God forbid_ , a giggle escapes Dean’s lips. He presses a kiss in return to Cas’ cheek, turning his face away quickly afterward to hide his embarrassment.

 

*

 

Dean gapes at Ms. Mills. “You’re s _hitting_ me.”

His English teacher makes a noise of disapproval at the use of language but doesn’t bother to hide the grin on her face. “I’m proud of you, Dean. See? Hard work pays off in the end. And it doesn’t hurt to have Cas, your good friend.”

“Boyfriend,” Dean corrects without thinking. His cheeks burn. “Uh—”

Ms. Mills waves a dismissive hand. “Just, shut up before you dig yourself into a deeper hole, young man.”

“Right,” he says. The information is still slowly sinking in. Dean looks down again at his English paper. A month of continual reading at the school and town libraries and a week of solid essay writing (which had been _so painful_ , tears had been shed) have brought him to this moment.

“You can go back to your seat now, Mr. Winchester,” Ms. Mills says as she pries his paper out of his fingers with some difficulty.

When he sits down, a new friend of his, a quirky but friendly girl named Charlie— who had moved to town a couple of weeks ago— asks eagerly, “What’d you get?”

A broad grin spreads his lips. “B minus.”

“Hell yeah, give me knuckles,” she holds up a fist.

Dean fist-bumps Charlie and can’t keep still for the rest of the lesson. Waiting to tell Cas is unbearable. Dean scrambles out from behind his desk the moment the bells rings and announces the start of lunch. He is the first one out the door. Charlie is still inside. Impatient, he cracks his knuckles as the rest of the sophomores file out.

“Finally!” Dean sighs with exasperation as Charlie exits the classroom, pushing her thick-framed glasses up her nose. She grins at him.

“You didn’t have to wait. I know how lovey-dovey and gross you two are about each other,” Charlie says as she walks backward, “Also I’m going to the library. Since you’ve introduced me to chess club, I need to practice, so I can beat that damn boyfriend of yours.”

Dean waves her goodbye. “You won’t be able to! He’s the king.”

“Oh, Dean,” she says with mock-sympathy. “Don’t you know it’s the _queen_ who has the most moves?”

Dean laughs and shakes his head before turning on his heel and weaving his way through the teens milling about.

Anticipation makes his pulse spike in speed. What can he say? Cas has that affect on him. Dean feels like he could conquer anything right now. He is proud of himself. Proud of the result he got along with Cas’ help and dedication.

Just thinking about it makes Dean fall a little further for Cas, his sweetheart.

He follows the flow of the crowd, letting it carry him to the regular meeting spot: Cas’ locker. It hadn’t changed after the bullying incident. Cas had offered, just in case. But Dean was adamant. He didn’t want to be afraid anymore. He was sick of it. Dean was picking up the pieces of his life so far that he had always seen as broken and stitching them back together.

Being with Cas gives him inspiration.

The guy was an angel.

Not those pansy cupid-looking things, but a warrior with compassion.

Cas is leaning against his locker when Dean comes around the corner. His blue eyes land on Dean and his heartbeat stutters. Cas pushes off the wall as Dean comes near.

“Judging from the look on your face, I’m assuming you got a good grade?” Cas rests a hand on the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder.

Dean nods, hardly able to contain his excitement. “B minus, Cas!”

At Cas’ bright grin, Dean simply allows his happiness to burst. He throws his arms around his boyfriend in a tight hug. Overcome and overjoyed in what he— they— have accomplished. Cas congratulates Dean and his embrace is warm and snug.

“Thank you,” Dean says, voice muffled and hoarse. “Thank you, thank you.”

Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s neck. “Anytime. I’m here for you.”

 

 

 _fin_  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! Hope you enjoyed. Leave a kudos if you did and tell me your thoughts in the comments :)


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